


what love brings for you and i

by blanchtt



Category: Carol (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-02-04 22:15:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12780699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blanchtt/pseuds/blanchtt
Summary: To call Carol beautiful would be an understatement of the most egregious sort. It would be easy, to fall for her, but she imagines she’d only end up like Icarus.





	what love brings for you and i

**Author's Note:**

> Reposting a few deleted fics.

  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She feels as if she sticks out like a sore thumb, the only one without a gaggle of friends already – _how is it even possible_ , Abby wonders. They’ve all only been out in the yard for ten minutes’ recess, yet she feels as if she’s missed her chance to ingratiate herself already. Perhaps everyone’s already paired up from last year or the year before – in that case, she’s got no hope.

 

_New town, same routine._

 

She thinks of Sam, her brother, horrifying their mother and angering their father with his long hair and leather jacket, and follows his lead. She hasn’t got a cigarette to smoke but leans up against the wall of the courtyard anyway, watching the other girls coolly, hands jammed in the pockets of her skirt. Better to look as if she wants to be left alone than to stand there uncertain and be mocked for finding herself alone.

 

At lunch Abby takes her place again, brooding. The sandwich her mother had packed sits in her bag, uneaten. Perhaps she could beg for them all to move back home to Connecticut, but the possibilities of that seem slim. Their new house is larger, the new car fancier, her father’s new job more prestigious.

 

As Sam would say, _not a chance in hell_.

 

She’s pulled from her thoughts by the sight of a girl walking up to her, coming to a stop, and Abby narrows her eyes, half against the sun and half to look calculatedly disinterested. The girl is tall and blonde, a spattering of freckles and pale eyes – for all the world looking just like the Annes and Sues and Joys who sit on the swings giggling about boys – yet she’s got a kickball tucked under her arm, other hand cocked on her hip.

 

“I’m trying to get together a team,” the girl offers. “Want to play?”

 

If she somehow hasn’t noticed, the game of the day is jacks and hopscotch and jumprope, not something as rough and dirty as kickball. Not that Abby would be opposed. Growing up with only a brother to play with had meant she’d gotten used to rough and tumble sort of games, often leaving her dirty or bruised or both and her mother chastising her for tears in her dresses, burrs caught on her socks, hair ruffled and uncombed.

 

 “I don’t think you’re going to get too many takers,” Abby warns, and the girl shrugs, loose and careless.

 

“Their loss.” She lets the ball drop into her hands, tossing it up and down lightly with a smile. “Well, are you playing or aren’t you?”

 

She feels herself start to smile too for the first time all day, and nods, pushing off the wall. “Alright.”

 

As they head toward the field the girl looks at her. “You new?”

 

It’s not mocking, but interested. She shrugs, as if it weren’t obvious. “Yeah.”

 

“I’m Carol.”

 

“Abby.”

 

It would seem as if everyone had only been waiting for someone daring enough to start the game. They don’t have a team, let alone enough for two, but gather enough girls as they go around asking to field the bases.

 

Her father picks her up after school, but Abby only worries once they trundle inside the house.

 

Her mother looks her up and down, takes in the scuffed knees and muddy shoes, and she blurts, “I’ve made a friend.”

 

 

-

 

She congratulates herself on being smarter than to let herself fall for Carol.

 

The idea comes to her, briefly, as it would considering how close they’ve become over the years, through middle school and into high school. But she pauses on the possibility, thinks, and then lets it go, putting it firmly from her mind with finality. She loves Carol dearly, as a friend. But to be _in love_ with her – that would be pure foolishness. She’s got better things to do than pine after something as unattainable as the sun.

 

Carol sits on the floor by the stack of magazines, legs crossed Indian-style despite her skirt, and Abby turns, grabbing the various lipsticks and compacts and nail polish bottles scattered on her vanity before she joins her. She lays out the items on the floor, arranges them while Carol slips a packet of cigarettes out of her jacket, opens it, and offers her one, holding it out to her between her middle and index finger.

 

“You’re lucky my mother likes you,” Abby says, taking it, and sticks the cigarette in her mouth. Carol, ever prepared, produces a light, reaches out as Abby leans forward, and helps her. The first breath is rough on her throat, her voice scratching as she adds, “She doesn’t suspect a thing.”

 

“I am,” Carol says, and then winces. “And I almost feel bad for agreeing.”

 

Carol may have fooled her mother, but the smell of smoke would give them away regardless. “Open the window,” Abby asks, and Carol stands, pads over to wrench open the warped old thing with the creak of wood.

 

Carol looks out it, down at the street as cool night air flows in slowly, before walking back over and sitting down, picking up a magazine.

 

“How’s Sam?”

 

His absence from the Gerhard household is obvious, but at least it’s for a good reason. “Still as hung up on his boy as ever,” Abby says lightly. “He’s got a place in the city now since, you know. Said I could visit him once I learn to drive.”

 

Their parents certainly wouldn’t be dropping her off for visits. Oh, how they had railed against it, and how angry they’d been at Sam. But didn’t they see that without him she’d be lost, wandering in the dark without words to describe herself? When he’d told her and she’d told him, despite their diametrically opposite interests Abby had felt as if they’d only grown closer, the two of them against the world.

 

It may be too much for Carol, for someone from a perfect family with perfect parents and a perfect sister all living together in a perfect house, and she goes silent. They spend some time like that, long enough for Abby to finish her cigarette and start painting her nails, before either of them speaks again.

 

There’s the wobbling flick of a glossy page, the sound of Carol making an amused noise before she holds out the magazine to Abby. Abby only looks at it, careful of her nails. “Imagine needing an article to learn how to kiss,” Carol says, almost haughty.

 

She knows for a fact that Carol hasn’t kissed anybody – if she did, she would have told her. She calls her out on it, giving her a look as Carol takes the magazine back. “And who have you kissed, smarty pants?” Carol frowns, her lack of worldly answer telling as Abby blows on her fingernails. _Nearly dry, but not quite._ “That’s what I thought.”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Carol gripes, going back to her magazine resolutely.

 

Once her nails are good and dry Abby reaches for a tube of lipstick, popping off the top and grabbing a compact with her free hand. Flipping it open, she narrows her eyes at her reflection, applying it carefully. Somehow her mother always made it look so effortless.

 

Abby purses her lips and caps the tube before turning, asking, “What do you think of this color?”

 

“Stunning,” Carol replies dryly as she looks up, not over her previous comment. She holds out her hand, a brow raised. “Hand it over, why don’t you.”

 

Abby drops it in her hand, watches as Carol finally puts the magazine back on top of the stack, and, with a flick of her head, tossing her hair out of her face, applies it without a mirror. The effortless how of it is completely beyond her.

 

Carol puts the lipstick down on the magazine without capping it, pursing her lips. “Well?” she asks, grey eyes watching her.

 

Despite the fact that they’re wearing the same shade, Abby cocks her head, appraising. “It’s a bit much,” she says finally. Despite their similar skin tones, Carol’s hair color makes it difficult for her to pull it off. “If you want my honest opinion.”

 

Carol’s expression goes thoughtful. “Hand me that mirror?” Abby does so, and once Carol sees her reflection she frowns. “Christ. You’re right.”

 

Carol snaps the compact shut, rises up on her knees and leans forward, reaches out to close the distance between them – Abby closes her eyes as Carol’s hands cup her jaw, as Carol urges her to tilt her head just a hairsbreadth so. She feels Carol’s hair brush against her nose as she leans in close, as Carol presses a kiss, hard, to her cheek.

 

Abby only opens her eyes once Carol’s let her go, and reaches up to push back her bangs as Carol asks, “Better?”

 

To call Carol _beautiful_ would be an understatement of the most egregious sort. It would be easy, to fall for her, but she imagines she’d only end up like Icarus.

 

And after all, among the growth spurts and awkwardness, she was still Carol, the one who’d asked her to promise not to tell when they’d pranked Mrs. Eakley, spit in her palm, and shook on it; Carol, who raced her on her bike back from school every day; Carol, who spent the night over, staying up late talking about nothing in particular yet never growing bored of it. It was Carol as she’d like to keep her.

 

And maybe she was pretty too, in someone else’s eyes. Gwen had invited her over next Tuesday, after all, for no reason in particular.

 

“Better,” Abby agrees, the now more muted shade of red on Carol’s lips fitting. She takes a drag, the feel of the lipstick mark on her cheek still cool and tacky. “How do I look?” she asks.

 

Carol looks at her, clearly pleased with her handiwork as she sticks a cigarette between her lips. “Absolutely dashing.”

 

 

-

 

“Did you get the invitation to Jenny’s graduation party?”

 

Abby doesn’t even look up from the essay she’s writing. _Can’t_. It’s due tomorrow, and there’s barely time for speaking, let alone parties. “The one tonight? I did. Didn’t think I’d go, though,” Abby replies quickly, glancing only over at Carol. She’s lounging on her bed, in a comfy looking sort of robe she knows Carol wouldn’t be caught dead in around anyone else, a book lying face-down on the bed next to her. “Are you?”

 

“Might as well,” Carol says with a wave of her hand. “A party is a party.”

 

Abby sniffs, adding another filler of a sentence to the paper. Only a few more pages until she could stuff it in her bag and forget about it until Monday. Why hadn’t she just sat down and written with Carol when she had had the chance? “You mean a drink is a drink.”

 

Carol laughs. Abby hears the squeak of the bed as she shifts, the thump of the book hit the floor. “Isn’t that what I said?”

 

She puts her pen down, cracks her knuckles and sits up, feeling the stretch in her back. “My uncle’s got the store. He said I can start working for him once I’ve graduated.”

 

The sudden change from parties to post-college plans is too abrupt, and it takes Carol a moment to compose her thoughts before she speaks. “Roland’s store?” She got along fabulously with everyone she’d ever met somehow, including Abby’s own extended family. “Are you going to?”

 

There’s an incredulous tone to it that has Abby turning in her seat, arm draping on the back of the chair as she narrows her eyes at her. Carol looks at her, sitting at the edge of her bed and smiling. “What, think I can’t handle it?”

 

“ _Well_ ,” Carol drawls, clearly teasing, and Abby considers balling up her paper and throwing it at her

 

“Help me out then, if you think it’s so difficult I can’t handle it by myself,” she snaps. At that Carol smiles dangerously.

 

“I’ll take you up on that,” she says. “Watch out.”

 

That would be a sight to see. Abby arches a brow. “Make my day.”

 

Carol’s mouth falls open, but she gathers herself quickly. “Alright,” she agrees. “You’re on. Tell Roland I’d like to help, too. But for now,” she finishes, standing, “I’ve got that party to get ready for.” Abby turns back to her essay, hears Carol rummage through her things and retreat to the bathroom.

 

As per usual, by the time she’s done Carol’s at least a half hour behind. She’s put the finishing touches on her essay and scrawled her name on the top corner – _good enough!_ – by the time Carol exits the bathroom, ready to leave.

 

Carol gathers up her things, passes by her with a squeeze to her shoulder before she opens the door. “Too bad you can’t come,” she says as she lingers in the doorway. “Sure I can’t convince you?” she asks.

 

Abby shakes her head. “I procrastinated and I need to make up for it,” she replies. “I’ve still got that assignment for Reynolds. Go ahead without me.”

 

Carol leaves with a wave of her fingers and the promise to be back by midnight – not much of a party, it would seem. And knowing Jenny it’s probably an hour away in someone’s boring country club. She’s got no idea why Carol goes to those stuffy old things. She supposes it’s part of making friends with just about everyone.

 

With Carol gone and probably for a good couple of hours, she reaches for the phone.

 

Not a half hour later, there’s a knock at the door. Abby greets her at the door, lets Gwen lean in and kiss her. “Where’s your better half?” Gwen jokes as they part, a hand resting on her hip.

 

“Out until later,” Abby answers, and as Gwen steps in locks the door behind them both.

 

 

-

 

 

Uncle Roland had done well enough to start his own store, forgoing his own woodwork to speculate on others’ and do nicely for himself. She’d grown up to him and her father working on the old house, waking her up Saturday mornings with the pounding of nails and the squeaking grind of saws, following the strict warnings not to wander in the garage barefoot for fear of splinters. She’d helped Sam carry countless broken pieces of furniture between the garage and Roland’s truck parked in the driveway, only for three months later to have it appear better than new and priced at a pretty penny.

 

Her education had been practical. Carol’s is theoretical, and so Carol flips through an old art history text book of hers, cramming. Abby hopes it helps. They’re there to sell and, their first time without her uncle’s observation, buy whatever people bring in.

 

But it’s mid-July and too damned hot to be working. It’s certainly too hot for customers. As Abby sits at the counter, she can see through the windows that no one’s walking around outside. The people stuck in their cars, heat added to the gridlock, look especially miserable. She looks to the side, finds Carol leaning on the countertop and fanning herself.

 

“I’m _dying_ ,” Carol groans, and Abby would believe her. She’s still got on her jacket and looks flushed. And if Carol looks flushed, then she’s probably beet-red.

 

“Cooler in here than it is out there,” Abby says, but it’s not much of a consolation. The fan just blows the warm air around, and Carol frowns, hand dropping back to her book. Too much effort for too little payback.

 

“Yeah,” she agrees listlessly. “A few degrees.”

 

Abby leans back in her seat, looks over at the old grandfather clock around the corner, waiting to be sold, and sighs. They haven’t had a single person pop into the store since before lunch and they’ve got hours yet to go.

 

She reaches back, shrugs and yanks on the sleeve of her own jacket – she’s slipped it off in the blink of an eye, leaving her blissfully cool if indecently exposed in her skirt and camisole, and Carol raises a brow. No matter how unprofessional, she’d rather be caught like this than on the floor faint from the heat.

 

“Scandalous,” Carol says, and Abby rolls her eyes.

 

“Take a picture,” she suggests acridly, laying the jacket on the counter behind them. It’s too hot for chastity. “It’ll last longer.”

 

There’s a beat, the rhythmic sound of Carol’s fingertips drumming on the pages of her open book, before Carol replies. “Wouldn’t you like that,” she says.

 

Abby looks at her and squares her shoulders, refusing to shirk though she can feel the fabric stick to her skin, and takes in the flick of Carol’s glassy eyes as she looks her up and down, the fine hairs at her temple that are damp and dark with the heat. She sounds amused, as she often is around her, Abby is pleased to say. But the hint of something else seeps through, just enough to be noticeable.

 

They make it to closing without a single customer. Their sales will hurt, but at least she doesn’t have to put her jacket back on. She takes the keys, twirls them on her finger as she checks the doors, locks up, and follows Carol outside.

 

With nightfall the temperature’s dropped, though not by much. Before they can disperse to their respective cars Carol reaches out, a hand catching her upper arm – Abby nearly jumps as the side of her thumb grazes her breast, as Carol leans in and kisses the air near her cheek, an affectation she does not object to.

 

“See you tomorrow, Abby.”

 

 

-

 

 

They grab lunch, as they usually do on Fridays. She finds it's becoming one of the few times that she has Carol to herself, attention undivided. By five, she’s usually out the door and off to some engagement with Harge, just like she’s got her own nights with Gwen. They’re adults, more or less. It’s to be expected.

 

Perhaps because Carol has never talked about him all that much, the announcement catches her off guard. “Harge proposed,” Carol says before taking a bite of her sandwich.

 

“Congratulations,” Abby replies. She’d never met him directly, but from what Carol had told her she instinctively did not care for him. What sort of friend would she be if she didn’t expect the best for Carol? It wasn’t in her to stick her nose where it didn’t belong, but finding someone’s company _pleasant_ – the most salacious detail she’d been able to wheedle out of Carol – wasn’t exactly her idea of marriage material. No dreamy looks, secret rendezvous, or steamy trysts? Why bother. She takes a drink. “When’s the wedding?”

 

“April,” Carol replies, as matter of factly as if she had asked if she wished for milk or sugar in her tea.

 

It’s unlike her to be so lukewarm on anything, and it worries her. Not about Harge beating her or anything as vile as that, but that Carol’s settling. There are enough unhappy housewives, Abby wants to tell her, without you adding to that number. Before she can censure herself, she says stiffly, “Don’t sound so excited, now.”

 

“I _am_ excited,” Carol negates, calmly. Her expression hardly changes – again, worrisome.

 

Abby looks out the window and holds in her sigh. What else can she offer Carol except acceptance? If she’s dead set on it, there’s no changing Carol’s mind. With nothing else to offer, she thinks. “‘Mrs. Carol Aird,’” she finally says, trying it out, and Carol smiles.

 

“It’s got a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?” she asks, preening a bit, and Abby has to agree. Though –

 

“Not as much as Mrs. Carol Gerhard.”

 

Carol rolls her eyes, but it gets a short laugh and that’s all she can ask for.

 

 

-

 

 

Winter comes down hard, almost as if to make up for the mild fall.

 

The snow coming down has only gotten worse the entire time she’s been in her old room, packing things up in boxes, and as Abby pushes the last box toward the door, ready to take downstairs, she looks out the window, the shades not yet drawn. She _could_ drive back to her apartment, finally spend the night in what she’s just put down a ridiculous deposit for. But the apartment’s not as warm as the house, and besides she’s got no food. Decided, she closes her bedroom door, turns and heads toward her bed – still made, her mother’s doing.

 

She grabs the extra pillows off the top, tosses them on her chair for the night, and goes still at the sight of an envelope resting on the comforter. _How had she missed that? The pillows, probably_. Abby picks it up, sits down, and flips the envelope over in her hand. From Gwen, to her, stamped as if it's gone through the mail rather than been dropped off. With one finger, she slides it open.

                                                      

She’s engrossed in the letter and almost misses the sound of the doorbell ringing. The shrill jangle reaches even upstairs, totally out of place, and Abby tosses the letter onto her desk, yanks open her bedroom door and heads downstairs. She runs are quietly and as carefully as possible down the stairs and to the front door, peering over the top through the glass panes before opening it.

 

Out of everyone she would have expected to show up at her old house at midnight, Carol would be the last. She opens the door and is as surprised to see Carol as Carol seems to see her.

 

“Abby,” Carol begins suddenly, but stops. Whatever she intends to say she drops, reaching out with a hand and touching her arm. “Are you okay?”

 

“Yes, I’m fine.” They’ve really grown up past the point of visiting each other so late at night, and Abby looks at her in confusion. “Are _you_ okay? What are you – ”

 

“Carol!” She’s interrupted by her mother at her elbow, peering out the doorway.

 

And of course now the entire house is awake. “Mother,” Abby protests, but the older woman ignores her.

 

“Get in here, dear, it’s freezing outside.” Her mother ushers Carol in, nudging her to the side. “Abby, move over, would you?”

 

Carol gives her mother a winning smile, accepting the offer with a nod – Abby takes a step back, motions with her hand and lets her in. “Hello, Mrs. Gerhard,” Carol says, clasping her hand as she walks in. Abby closes the door behind them all, not sorry to lock out the cold, and rests a hand on her hip. “Sorry about the hour, but my car’s giving me trouble. Stalled right outside your neighbor’s house, can you believe it?”

 

“Nonsense,” her mother says strongly. “You shouldn’t be driving out in this weather anyway. What if something were to happen to you?”

 

“God forbid.”

 

“Stay here,” her mother offers brightly, as if Carol weren’t a grown woman and married and with someplace to be. “We’ve got the spare bedroom. Abby’s leaving in the morning, too.”

 

_Who said she was leaving so soon?_ It seemed Carol could still charm anyone she wanted to. She was being shown the door and in her place Carol was being invited over for breakfast. And besides. “The room’s not – ” Abby begins, _not a spare room, Sam’s old room_ , and her mother gives her a look that has her go quiet.

 

“Oh, it's not set up. Abby, just let Carol stay in your room.” She thanks the low light of the hallway and sets her jaw, trying not to blush at the idea. “It’ll be like old times.”

 

“Yes, like old times,” Carol agrees brightly, and there’s no arguing with the two of them. “Let me just give Harge a call.”

 

Abby narrows her eyes as Carol smiles at her, makes her way into the living room where she knows the phone is. She’s sure Carol’s insistence has less to do with relieving her mother of having to prepare anything at this hour than getting to know what she’d just interrupted.

 

After her call Abby heads to her room as Carol follows, rummages through her wardrobe and comes up with pajamas for them both – Carol’s dress is much too nice to sleep in. She hands them to Carol, turns her back to give her privacy as they change.

 

When she turns around Carol sits on her bed, looking oddly out of place – a grown woman wearing her spare pajamas, sitting on her twin bed like they’re thirteen again with her knees drawn up to her chest, arms loose around herself.

 

“Were you crying?” Carol asks. Always a charming topic of conversation. It’s quiet, as if she’s afraid of upsetting her.

 

“Wasn’t crying,” Abby says quickly, and Carol gives her an unconvinced frown. She picks up the letter on her desk, folds it in two and then again before tossing it in the trashcan underneath the desk. “Gwen and I are through.” Almost eight years, in the bin just like that. Couldn’t even get her new address right, either. She’d felt a distance building up between them and known Gwen had felt it too when she’d mentioned moving out and she hadn’t jumped to join her in her new apartment. Not that that had been the problem, no. Only a symptom.

 

“Oh,” Carol breathes, understanding. “Oh, Abby. I’m sorry.” She’s known Gwen as long as she has, and lies, “You’ll find someone better, someone who’ll treat you right.”

 

“Yeah.” Carol says it with such convictions that it makes it easy to believe her, feeling less like platitudes and more like something that might have the chance of actually happening. Abby shrugs. “Good riddance to bad rubbish, right?”

 

Carol pats the empty space next to her – as much as she can. Abby gives in, sits next to her with her back against the headboard, and feels Carol lean up against her shoulder. “Got any cigarettes?”

 

Carol tilts her head. “In my car.”

 

It’s still snowing outside. She doesn't feel like fighting the weather, and she's certainly not going to ask Carol to walk out and get them. “Forget it.”

 

The ticking of her clock on the wall fills the silence between them. Somehow she finds that she doesn’t have anything to say. Not to Carol, but period. It’s around a yawn that Carol says finally, “What a night, huh? I suppose we should get some sleep.”

 

Abby’s not sure she can, but is willing to try. She stands as Carol does, turns down the covers and agrees. “Better than brooding, isn’t it?”

 

With the lights out they lie together in silence, Carol’s presence soothing. In the darkness alone she’d be free to roll things over in her mind, again and again, wondering where and when and why exactly things went wrong with Gwen, ad infinitum – but with Carol there, turning over to face her, her words are all she thinks about. _Someone who’ll treat her right._

 

“Abby?”

 

She feels the mattress dip, senses more than sees Carol very near her, perhaps propped up on her elbow, and feels surprisingly calm.

 

“Yes?”

 

Carol doesn’t ask whatever question she’s harboring and, instead, kisses her softly.

 

Everything except the feel of Carol’s lips on hers flies out the window. She surges to meet her, and very nearly laughs as, as the kiss grows heated, Carol nips at her. She never would have guessed.

 

But in no time at all Carol’s hips arch into her and she reaches out, places a hand on her waist to hold her still. She turns away from her kiss, feels Carol pause and shift, and undeterred press a kiss to the base of her throat. How wrong it would all be, if it were for any reason other than love – love or _love_.

 

“Carol, if this is because you feel sorry – ”

 

“No,” she interjects. Her words come out more softly, unsure, and Abby feels the tug of the blanket pulling against her shoulder as Carol draws it closer around them, warmer though she feels she hardly needs it with the way Carol’s fingers trace slowly down her arm. “If you don’t want this, Abby, let me know; because I do.”

 

How can she say no to that?

 

 

-

 

 

It’s never at night – as a married woman, it would be glaringly obvious.

 

They meet in the mornings or afternoons, lie about taking a drive or shopping or catching a matinee. As long as Carol seems to sprinkle the lie with some off-putting, feminine purpose, there are no questions asked from Harge. The best days are weekdays, when he’s off at work and there’s no need to make up anything, no need to think about him at all.

 

They fall into her bed in her apartment, free to do as they please – as loud or quiet, as hard or soft, as quick or slow as Carol wants.

 

Because Carol does want, and Abby gives and gives and gives. She kisses her way up a thigh, revels in the noises she can coax from Carol she never thought she’d hear – never thought she’d hear made for _her_ – in her wildest dreams. She almost can’t believe it, yet the way Carol twists fingers in her hair and pulls her closer assures her that it is all very much real.

 

She knows better than to imagine what they have is anything permanent. All she can do is appreciate what she has at the moment, like a masterpiece on loan, as often and as fervently as possible.

 

Nevertheless, the end is swift and brutal.

 

It lasts several months, months that have her feeling alive again. Not because of the sex, although that doesn’t hurt, but because Carol is back, the old Carol who doesn’t give a damn about swearing in public, about drinking before five, about skipping get-togethers in perfect houses on sprawling suburban properties.

 

After another one of their afternoons together, Carol sits at the edge of her bed, looking out the window, dressed and ready to leave. The way the sun hits her hair makes her look positively angelic. Abby almost wants to tell her so, feeling reckless.

 

“Carol.”

 

Carol looks back over her shoulder, looks almost ill as she interrupts ever so politely –

 

“I’m expecting.”

 

She nearly chokes on her drink. Her throat burns as she swallows hard, reaches out and sets the glass down on her bedside table. Her first though: mid-affair – with another woman, no less – doesn’t seem like the best time to bring a child into the world. The second, right on its tail, visceral and cold in its realization: it will not be mid-affair. Abby understands the comment for what it is. An announcement of one thing, and an end of another.

 

“ _Jesus_ , Carol,” she rasps. How recent is this development? The fact that they’re no longer an item rolls off her like water. Really, they do have bigger things to focus on now. And Carol watches her with a worried expression – the last thing she’d like is for the whole thing to be a bitter memory.

 

She doesn’t know the first thing about that stuff. Never had to, never planned to, to her mother’s growing realization, but does her best for Carol. “Got any names yet?” Abby asks congenially, and it gets a sigh out of Carol, the closest to a laugh she can afford at the moment.

 

“No.” It sounds relieved, as if she expected Abby to be upset at her. As if she could ever be. “I suppose I’ll think of one when I find out what it is.”

 

That’s months and months away, and Abby reasons, “I think you’ve got time.”

 

Carol reaches out, takes her hand and laces their fingers together, and she squeezes back.

 

 

-

 

 

She stops by a burger joint on her way to the hospital. Luckily she’s got her biggest purse on her, and everyone’s too busy with their own matters, nurses running to and fro and visitors milling or chasing after them, to sniff anything out.

 

It’s close to the end of visiting hours but Abby slips into the room, taking care not to let her heels click too loud on the floor. But Carol’s alone, awake, sitting up surrounded by pillows in bed, and looks up at her as she closes the door behind herself. “I’m surprised you’re not sleeping,” Abby says, pulling up a chair so that she sits at Carol’s side.

 

She smiles. “I’ve slept all day already. Now I’m up and no one else is.”

 

Abby reaches into her purse, looks over her shoulder guilty just in case, before pulling out the paper bag. Carol’s eyes light up as she hands it to her. “I guess you’ll want this, then.”

 

“Second-best thing that’s happened to me today,” Carol quips, unrolling the folded top and reaching in for the food.

 

Even up late and without make-up she manages to look regal, manners intact as she offers Abby a fry. She declines. She can see it already. Carol will be one of those perfectly composed mothers, coifed and with nary a pearl out of place, yet under that fiercely protective and loving and giving. God would strike her down if she dared voice it, that Carol could probably put the Madonna to shame.

 

She glances once around the room, quiet and dark save for the light of the lamp on Carol’s bedside table. “Is Harge at home?”

 

“Probably. Or off celebrating with the men,” Carol says, licking salt from her fingertips as she finishes a fry. “They chased him out around five, if I remember.” She nods at the basinet to her left, looking proud. “Speaking of. The nurse is apparently well read. Agrees with Ms. Mead and let me keep her nearby instead of with the other newborns.”

 

She’d almost forgotten why Carol was here in the first place. Abby sits up, peers into it, sees a baby wrapped up in a blanket sleeping. “A girl, then,” she confirms, whispering. She finds it suits Carol more than the idea of a son.

 

“Rindy,” Carol breathes, like a prayer. “You can hold her.”

 

She’d rather drive through New York traffic at five in the afternoon than hold a baby. Kids have never been her thing, and what if she were to drop her? “I don’t know how.”

 

Carol laughs. “I don’t know how, either,” she admits with a hint of nervousness. She forgoes more fries in favor of the burger, angling it over the bag and careful not to drop anything on the bedsheets. “You’ll be her godmother, won’t you?”

 

She looks at Rindy sleeping and can’t imagine turning Carol down. “Of course.”

 

 

-

 

 

Carol does not return to work, even as Rindy hits six months. Abby should have expected it and, as the summer brings with it heat and tourists, she really should have planned better for it. As much as Carol is busy, so is she. With Uncle Roland’s retirement she’s ready to take the entire thing upon herself. It’s daunting, but manageable.

 

Carol’s lack of presence around the store is not Carol’s fault, she’s certain. Abby’s never known anything to keep Carol laid up for more than a week at most, and suspects Harge or the depressingly old-fashioned influence of his mother.

 

When Carol finally does drop by, it’s at her apartment one Saturday morning, bright and early. She lets her in, grateful she’s already dressed, and watches as Carol hikes Rindy up higher on her hip and drops her purse on the table in the hallway.

 

Rindy’s lost the terrifying smallness of newborns, and when she does manage to focus looks at her with big, dark eyes – Harge’s coloring, but still pretty. “I do hope you don’t mind the unexpected visit,” Carol says, taking a look at the mirror on the wall and taming a flyaway with her free hand.

 

“Carol,” Abby stop hers flatly. As if she would ever. She gives her a grateful smile.

 

“Harge’s mother is driving me up the wall, along with Harge and Florence, too. I needed to get out of the house.” She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, as if ready to pace. “Too many damned cooks in the kitchen.”

 

Abby waves at Rindy, surprised but pleased as she stares at her hard before breaking into a smile, then turning and hiding her face in her mother’s shoulder. “Why’s she still around?”

 

Carol makes a displeased noise. “She insists on helping, though I’m afraid she’s taken it as a permanent invitation to move in despite how often she complains about the kitchen needing to be redone, the unused piano going to waste, my cooking in general.” She glances around, motioning toward the living room. “Do you mind if we sit?”

 

“Please, do.”

 

They settle on the couch. Carol balances Rindy on her knee, holding her carefully, and Abby leans toward her. She holds out her hand, watching as Rindy’s tiny fingers grasp at her pinky finger, little eyebrows furrowed in concentration. “I’m perfectly capable of babysitting,” Abby offers. “Tell her you’ve got someone for Rindy and you and Harge want time alone.”

 

Carol only breathes out through her nose, lips pursed in a thin line. “I thought we could catch up, just the two of us,” she says, in a tone that brooks no argument and leaves Harge out entirely.

 

“Up for a jaunt on the town?” Abby suggests, grinning. “What Harge doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

 

From Carol’s knee, Rindy spontaneously lets out a delighted shriek, and Abby winces at the feel of her sharp little fingernails digging into her skin. Near her, she hears Carol lean closer, laugh softly. “Think you can handle the two of us?”

 

She manages to get Rindy to let go of her fingers despite her grip, and checks to make sure she’s not well and truly bleeding. “Well, now I’m not so sure,” Abby jokes. “Your nails were never quite so sharp.”

 

It may be the first time she’s ever made Carol blush. “She got me good when she was about three months, on the arm. Looked like I’d been trying to hold a cat that didn’t want to be petted,” she jokes. She gathers up Rindy in her arms and stands impatiently. “I’m game if you are. If I spend one more day cooped up indoors, I’ll scream.”

 

She doesn’t have plans for the rest of the day, and the idea of dropping everything for a romp is always welcome. “I need my coat and I’m ready to go.”

 

She has no understanding of what protocol babies demand. They get a look or two here and there as they flit in and out of stores, the restaurant, as they walk. Probably because Rindy is so young.

 

Despite her reluctance, she relents to give Carol a break. She holds Rindy, who clutches at the collar of her dress, making soft, meaningless noises as they walk down the street. She tugs on occasion with a surprising strength, and Abby’s glad she’s not wearing a necklace.

 

“How’s the shop?” Carol asks.

 

“Busy.” Abby can hear the interest behind the question, but doesn’t have to ask if Carol’s coming back. The answer is clear enough, barring Harge and his mother having a change of heart or some other holy miracle. “I could really use you there, you know.” She doesn’t say it to guilt Carol but to let her know how much she had helped her.

 

They come to a stop on the sidewalk. Carol leans in, fingertips brushing against her waist, and for a single moment Abby believes she’s coming in to kiss her. But Carol only drops a kiss to the crown of Rindy’s head, steps back a bit and looks at her with grey eyes harder than she’s ever seen them. Abby doesn’t want her to let go of her waist, feeling stupid and hungry all at once.

 

She had wondered if Rindy had happened because of what they’d shared. She obviously wasn’t _hers_ in the literal sense, but Carol had never mentioned trying for children before. A happy fluke, maybe, Carol careless in love.

 

Abby looks down, bounces Rindy once in her arms. “You can always come back whenever you’d like.”

 

She puts it out there, for Carol to do what she wishes with it, and feels Carol’s hand leave her waist slowly, reluctantly.

 

 

-

 

 

Her brother had warned her – _marriage changes things_ , he’d said. Not that he had married, but he’d experienced it with his own circle of friends _. And children, even more so._ If marriage didn’t change friendships, children surely would.

 

Abby sees Carol less and less, which pains her, though they keep in contact. There are lunches here and there throughout the year, mostly when Harge is away on business, but at the very least she can be certain to see her at Rindy’s birthday parties.

 

She parks her car in the huge driveway among the other behemoths, browns, greys, and blacks, all similar boring, expensive models. She fiddles with the lowered top of her own car, pulls it up in case the overcast winter sky decides to let loose, and latches it into place.

 

Luckily Carol answers the door, pulls her in with a hug with Rindy’s present crushed between them. If Harge were to answer – but when would he ever do that, king of his castle? – she’s not sure she’d be let in. It’s hardly an exaggeration. She wonders if he knows about them or simply dislikes seeing someone attending their parties who looks so distinctly out of place.

 

“Where’s the birthday girl?” she asks as Carol lets her go.

 

“Probably with her father, eating too much cake,” Carol says tartly. She calls for her, waits a moment before Rindy appears around the corner.

 

Finding someone other than her mother watching her, Rindy drifts over to her mother with wary eyes on her, a hand clutching at the fabric as she hides behind her skirt. Carol teeters slightly, Rindy no longer a baby, and reaches out to place a hand on her shoulder to urge her forward.

 

“And how old are you now?” Abby asks, leaning down. Rindy holds out a hand, to indicate five, suddenly shy.

 

She holds out the present which Rindy takes with a quiet _thank you_ , and then Carol’s hand is on her shoulder again. “Sweat pea, ask Daddy to help you open it,” she suggests, and Rindy nods, walking away though she looks back at Abby before rounding the corner. “I’ll be right over.”

 

Carol motions her after her, and leads her from the foyer to the kitchen – there’s no one around. Probably all in the living room, smoking and drinking and eating already. “You look well,” Carol says, pouring her a drink. Abby returns the compliment, takes a seat at the table as Carol makes her own. “What are you doing next Friday?”

 

It’s surprisingly specific for her. “Nothing much,” Abby replies with a shrug. “Working. Why?”

 

Carol sits down next to her, close enough to nudge her knee with her own as she settles back in her seat. “Let’s get together.”

 

“Alright.”

 

 

 

As the week drags on she wonders when she’ll hear from Carol. Abby goes about her days, Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday passing in a blur – and of course it’s Thursday night when Carol calls. She’s already in bed and has to get up, shivering as she emerges from her warm sheets, to answer up the phone.

 

“Pick me up tomorrow morning, would you?” Carol asks by way of a hello. “You know I hate driving in the city.”

 

She would just to see her, but can’t help but ask, “Is this lunch or am I just your cab?”

 

“Lunch – and dinner, drinks, and whatever comes after,” Carol says, fiercely, as if daring anyone or anything to change her plans. “Rindy will be at her grandmother’s for the weekend.”

 

“A night on the town, like old times,” Abby remarks. They haven’t done that in years. “I’ll take the day off and be over at ten.”

 

She picks her up the next morning, watches Carol lock the door behind herself, get halfway down the steps, take in the convertible’s lowered top, and go back into the house. After a moment she emerges with a thicker coat, and uncomplaining lets her drive off.

 

She double-parks outside Frankenberg’s as Carol runs inside – late as usual, even with Christmas presents, and dallies inside almost long enough for her to get a ticket – before they stop for an early lunch. “We’re divorcing,” Carol says bluntly as they settle into a booth. As much as she’s like to smile, to sigh with relief and happiness for her, Abby keeps her expression neutral and says nothing. She understands now the passion behind her insistence on meeting earlier.

 

She buys her a drink instead, one that Carol accepts with a sly smile.

 

 

-

 

 

Their friendship blooms again, like a crocus once hidden under years’ worth of snow. As odd as it sounds, the divorce seems to be the best thing to happen to Carol in years, aside from the perpetual thorn in her side that is Harge, his machinations, and what it means for Rindy.

 

Abby can be nothing but happy when Carol mentions Therese. Carol needs more than her and Rindy in her life. “So,” she asks, taking a drag of her cigarette as the waiter takes their empty plates away. _How to put it delicately_. “What’s her husband do?”

 

“There’s no husband,” Carol says, almost smug in her contentment, and Abby raises her glass to her.

 

“About time you enjoyed yourself.” Carol looks alive again, vivacious and eager to talk, and Abby hopes, with equal parts love and distrust, that Therese treats her right.

 

“Speaking of,” Carol says, pursing her lips. “I should be off. I said I’d pick her up at four.” Although she’s loathe to see her go, she’d rather lose Carol to some kid who makes her happy than an ass keeping her locked up at home.

 

 

 

Harge somehow manages to make a separation the opposite of what it is – Carol spends an inordinate amount of time with her lawyer, parrying each and every of Harge’s requests, or at home, waiting for him to drop off Rindy from whatever dalliance he’s planned, keeping their daughter for more than his fair share of time.

 

Carol’s _still_ waiting for him to drop Rindy off when she calls at ten to eight one night – their plans together for the evening are canceled with an apology, but Abby goes out anyway.

 

Without Carol’s discriminating taste, she picks a steak place and sits at the bar, orders a drink and watches the people filter into the restaurant, the noise growing louder as the hour grows longer. She nurses her drink, not hungry, and nearly jumps when the bartender speaks to her.

 

“Where’s your friend?”

 

She turns around, people-watching forgone for the moment, and finds a woman speaking to her. _An oddity, but not unwelcome._ Perhaps she’s seen her with Carol more than once. It’s highly likely – who wouldn’t notice Carol? “Waiting on her husband.” She can’t help the bitterness that leaches into the word. The woman shakes her head.

 

“Shame.” She mixes a drink, pushes it across the counter to her. “She doesn’t know what she’s missing.”

 

“What – me, drinking alone?” Abby snorts, accepting it. “Stop the presses.”

 

The woman laughs, leans forward across the counter just enough for Abby to wonder if it’s real or all for tips. “I get off at eleven,” she offers, casual despite all the ways the offer could go wrong. “If you wouldn’t mind some company.”

 

_Probably not for tips._

 

“Yeah?” She smiles despite herself, takes a drink before nodding. “Alright.”

 

 

-

 

 

“She’ll hate me.”

 

It’s true – who could possibly harbor anything but adoration toward Carol? Therese’s unhappiness, intentional or not, will fall on her instead. She wonders, really wonders, if Carol knows what she’s doing, what waking up with the bed empty feels like, what it does to you. How a letter could be clung to for years, or glanced at and thrown in the trash.

 

She wonders if Carol is prepared for what it will do to _her_.

 

Abby sits back on the couch, grips the receiver and hears Carol let out a pained breath over the phone. “I wouldn’t ask if – ”

 

She interrupts. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t.”

 

She hardly has time to phone Ruth next – matters of great importance, an old friend in need, etcetera – who only agrees sleepily, tells her to have a safe flight, and let her know when she arrives.

 

She catches a plane out to some podunk city, meets Carol at the gates as people flow around them. To anyone else she’d look calm, but Abby can see she’s distraught. Carol thanks her and hands her the car keys, the directions to the motel in her neat print, and hugs her hard before catching her flight to New York.

 

It’s nearing dawn by the time Abby pulls up to the motel, parks, and takes a deep breath. She lets herself into the room with a jangle of the keys, sits in the corner in the straight-backed chair, and lights a cigarette, bracing herself for when Therese, who already stirs in bed as it grows lighter, realizes she’s not Carol.

 

 

-

 

 

They’ve driven God knows how many miles with all of ten words between them. Mostly they’ve been her’s, asking if Therese needs anything – _You hungry, kid? Let’s stop here. You take that bed._ Always met with silence. If the remainder of the journey is to pass the same way she’ll probably fall asleep at the wheel.

 

In the interest of engaging Therese, Abby reaches out, turns the dial and lowers the radio. In the quiet that follows, her mouth gets ahead of her manners. “She’s impossible to say no to, huh?”

 

The car is silent and she thinks for a moment, annoyance flaring, that Therese is ignoring her. She looks away from the road and over at her, feeling snappish, but sobers as she sees Therese is biting her lip, tears welling in her eyes. It would appear it was the wrong thing to say.

 

“Hey.” _Damn it, damn it all_. “Forget I said anything.” There’s a wet sniff and a shuddering breath, and out of the corner of her eye Abby sees Therese reaches up to scrub at her nose. Road trips are fine and dandy when you’re in love, but without that leave too much time to ruminate. She wonders if she can ask Therese to drive, to distract her, and then wonders if she even knows how. Ah, well. _Onto plan B._ “I’ve got a flask in my bag.”

 

Therese twists in her seat at the words, reaches back and rummages in her bag until she finds it.

 

“Thank you,” she finally replies, voice thick. Abby hears Therese clear her throat, hearing how the words sound, before she sees her taking a drink, sees the flask tilting up out of the corner of her eye.

 

“We’ve all been burned,” Abby says matter-of-factly. Wallowing’s never done anyone any good, and there doesn’t seem to be anyone else to tell Therese to buck up, leaving it to her to do so. “It’ll heal.”

 

A watery laugh from Therese, short and soft. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

 

“Drink more of that, and it will. Don’t you dare throw up in here, though.”

 

 

-

 

 

The house is quiet and empty, unsettling even for someone not in a fragile state.

 

“Has Therese asked about me?”

 

Therese has been short on details with her, the two of them never fated to be best of friends though she’s _tried,_ damn it, for Carol’s sake. Therese is so young she can’t see it – thinks she’s still trying to edge her out, as if she and Carol can’t possibly have gone from friends to lovers, briefly, and then more comfortably back to friends again. _So young_ , Abby thinks again, a nearly constant refrain whenever she has to think about Therese. She’s gleaned enough from the few times Therese has answered her calls, though, and she could never be cruel to Carol.

 

“I heard she’s working at the Times,” Abby says, all she can offer.

 

The light from a passing car flicks through the window, slants across the room, and is gone just as quickly. In the near-darkness she watches as Carol stamps out her cigarette, stands, and offers her her hand.

 

They part at the door with a hug, Carol lingering before she pulls away.

 

“Thank you, Abby,” Carol calls after her. She looks back and salutes rakishly as she walks toward her car, getting a tired smile out of her.

 

She doubts very much Carol will sit on that information without doing anything, and looks forward to meeting Carol _and_ Therese for drinks, together, both hopefully in decidedly less dramatic moods.

 

“Anything for you, Carol.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
